Independent woman

I was reflecting to my mother-in-law yesterday that - in my well qualified opinion - her granddaughter looks more like a child than a baby now. It was one of those revelatory moments in which you have thought something for a while, but only realise you think it once you've said so to somebody else. Something in her face triggered my realisation. (My daughter's face, not my mother-in-law's). Possibly her cheeks have shed a little puppy fat; possibly her teeth are a little bit more visible with each beaming grin to which she treats us; or could it be the added intensity with which the wisdom of experience now glows in her eyes?

Whatever the reason, my wife and I are increasingly aware that the double-edged sword of development has been well and truly, um, unsheathed in our daughter. Dubious metaphors aside, on the one hand I can now relate on a very mild level to my own mother's distress at seeing me move out of the family home, when I consider the peaceful vulnerability and complete dependency upon us which defined our daughter a few months ago, but which now exist only in our cherished memories.

On the other hand, new sources of pride now come thick and fast as her increasing independence of thought and movement compel her frequently to discover and hone new abilities. A few weeks ago crawling on her knees suddenly became the norm, as opposed to the occasional variation it previously constituted from the tummy-based commando shuffle she relied upon for so long. The added speed which is the consequence of this new technique has enabled her to pursue her programme of autonomous exploration with greater confidence. Being able to go where she wants has coincided with knowing where she wants to go.

This development also evidently represented the dawning of a new, more balanced era. She soon advanced to a variety of nonchalant sitting positions, ranging from bolt upright to leaning on one arm with a kind of casual Roman decadence. These have since been followed by a preference for kneeling and, now, standing herself up with the aid of absolutely any surface within reach. As yet she can't or won't listen to our advice about checking the stability of said surfaces beforehand, which requires my wife or myself to be on constant alert: hands poised on either side of our daughter like some sort of faith healer working intently on the baby's kidney chakras.

All of these new stances aid our daughter in using her christmas present: a tiny little red piano boasting one, magnificently tinny octave. My adoration of this is bettered only by my daughter's. Her compositions need some work, but she does love to bash them out with gusto. For a love of making music (or 'noise') is another of her recent discoveries. One of the only regrets I have concerning my youth is my failure to have mastered a musical instrument. The signs are good that my daughter will have no such reason for remorse.

And, should her penchant for piano peter out, then her passion for percussion will persevere. Which is why we also got her a little drum. I think even the most cool and rational parents find it difficult to resist seeing portents of future brilliance in every action of their offspring, and I'm no different. If she's not the next Ben Folds, then I think our daughter's a certainty for a role in Stomp at the very least.

She's getting very good at social interaction as well. She has always been happiest among crowds, but now she definitely recognises people and reacts accordingly: she has distinct relationships with people. My favourite example of this is the knowing grin she gives me each day upon my return from work. Nobody else is entitled to this particular privilege, and it is easily my best thing, ever. But other, less regular visitors, are accorded varying receptions according to our daughter's specific memories of them. Nana, as a relatively frequent attendee, is also often treated to a smile; the postman gets nothing.

Child psychologists, anthropologists and other clever people will probably dismiss me as a naive and partisan optimist, but I consider that this discernment between greetings represents a quite advanced level of awareness and communication in my daughter. And, speaking of communication, she has also added some exciting new phonetics to her lexicon. For a long time she kept it largely to "Dadadadadadada", which suited my narcissistic side just fine, but on the whole I am pleased to witness the growing array of noises which now comprise her vocabulary. "Bwabwabwa" is the current favourite, of both its speaker and its audience. It's a difficult noise to make unenthusiastically. She also reserves a different tone of voice for conversations with her toys. This is very cute.

I'm grateful that I can appreciate these nuances in her communication, because I'm sure in about fifteen years she won't talk to me at all. But I'll still find a way to be proud of that.